


i feel your thumbs press into my skin again

by softhan



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (there is a needle mentioned but not Graphically), Blood and Gore, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, non graphic description of medical stuff, references to medical malpractice (past), this is a happy hopeful story but it's hannigram so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-07 12:16:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15908097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softhan/pseuds/softhan
Summary: Autoimmune encephalitis can be a recurring disease,” Hannibal says, as gently as Will has ever heard him.“Oh, god.” Will brings his hands up and covers his face. He takes a moment to just breathe, letting the thought hit him and settle, mind spiraling in a hundred directions. “What are we going to do about that? I can’t very well just check myself into a hospital and say ‘Hi, I have a history of this rare autoimmune disease that a fugitive who looks exactly like me is known for having’, can I?”Will has a relapse of his encephalitis, but Hannibal and their dogs take good care of him.





	i feel your thumbs press into my skin again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [embulalia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/embulalia/gifts).



> Infinite love to [Em](http://embulalia.tumblr.com), whose birthday was last month and was infinitely patient with me about getting this to her (and then also looked it over for me bc she is an angel). She asked me for medical hurt/comfort and loves dogs so that is what you should expect going into this
> 
> Title is from the song [Welcome Home by Radical Face](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5KxCFL9TN4)

The dogs are ostensibly not allowed to be on the furniture, but they’re both pretty bad about enforcing that. Will had sort of expected Hannibal to be pretty anal about the dogs, but he actually is far worse than Will about their training most of the time. As long as they don’t chew up anything of his, he rarely scolds them at all. And he’s terrible about giving them treats. Will resigned himself to having to be the strict dog parent early on, and he is, most of the time. Today, though, he’s lying down with Shelby squeezed between his side and the back of the couch, and Dixon sprawled across his feet. He hasn’t had a headache like this in years and he figures he’s allowed some canine comfort.

Thursdays are a research day for Will, so at least he hasn’t had to go anywhere. He felt fine when he got up that morning, but about an hour after Hannibal left for work he started feeling kind of achy, and then the headache started. He hoped it would go away if he laid down, but it has just been getting worse; he must have picked something up from one of his students, although it’s a surprise Hannibal didn’t smell it on him.

God, Hannibal will be home soon. Will resigns himself to submitting to some mother henning; as far as Will can tell, Hannibal is incapable of being calm about Will being in anything less than perfect health. It’s nice sometimes when he gets injured, but most of the time it’s a little smothering. Right now what Will really wants is to be left alone in the dark until his head decides to stop screaming at him. The dogs don’t count. They won’t poke at him with medical instruments or try to make him eat. They’re just happy to get snuggles.

The door opens, and Will listens to the sounds of Hannibal hanging up his keys and taking off his coat. Dixon jumps down and goes to greet her favorite father; there are snuffling sounds as Hannibal no doubt gives her a treat he shouldn’t. “That’s a good girl,” Hannibal says. “Where’s your sister?”

Will debates calling out and telling him (Shelby is dead asleep against his side), but speaking seems like a lot of effort, and they aren’t exactly hard to find. Sure enough, Hannibal steps into the living room only a moment later. Will’s eyes are closed, but he hears the pause in footsteps as Hannibal takes in the scene: lights off, Will lying with a dog on the couch in the middle of the afternoon. 

“Will?” he calls softly. Trying not to wake him up, or maybe being deferential to sensory issues. Probably both.

“I’m awake,” Will says, not opening his eyes. “I think I might have a fever, and my head hurts like a bitch.”

Two footsteps, a rustle, and then Hannibal’s hand on his forehead. “Definitely a fever,” Hannibal says, still keeping his voice low. “You could have called me.”

Will opens his eyes at that, to increase the effectiveness of the glare he’s attempting. Hannibal is kneeling next to the side of the couch, looking concerned. “It’s probably just the flu.”

Hannibal leans closer and inhales deeply, then frowns. “What other symptoms have you had? Have you felt confused or disoriented at all?”

Now Will is concerned. “Why? What is it?”

“Autoimmune encephalitis can be a recurring disease,” Hannibal says, as gently as Will has ever heard him. 

“Oh, god.” Will brings his hands up and covers his face. He takes a moment to just breathe, letting the thought hit him and settle, mind spiraling in a hundred directions. “What are we going to do about that? I can’t very well just check myself into a hospital and say ‘Hi, I have a history of this rare autoimmune disease that a fugitive who looks exactly like me is known for having’, can I?”

“I can treat you from home,” Hannibal says, and Will can see the gears turning in his head, trying to work out the logistics. “The plasmapheresis will be complicated, but it should be doable.”

“That’s going to be risky in itself,” Will says. “Stealing plasma? And we’ll both have to take like, a month off work. Fuck. I don’t want to have to move again just because my _stupid_ brain has decided to light itself on fire for no reason at all.” He takes a deep breath. “Goddamnit. I knew this headache felt familiar.”

“We’ve caught it much earlier than last time,” Hannibal says, looking at Will’s forehead rather than his eyes. “You should be well enough to function through most of the treatment. They’d likely only have checked you in for a day or two and then done the rest as outpatient treatments, regardless.”

“Plasmapheresis makes me feel like complete shit,” Will says. “And I imagine that will be true whether or not you’ve spent the better part of a year actively denying me medical care. And prednisone is awful. Neither of us is gonna get much sleep.”

“We’ll do what we can.” Hannibal leans forward and presses a kiss to Will’s forehead; almost an apology. “I have TA’s in all my classes this term, they can always cover if I need to be here with you. And if we have to move, we have to move. Your health is more important than this place, or these jobs.”

“But I _like_ this place, and these jobs.” Will hears the whine in his own voice, and closes his eyes. “This is ridiculous.”

Hannibal smoothes the hair back from Will’s forehead and then stands. “I’ll get you some tylenol for now, and then see about getting everything else we’ll need. Have you eaten today?”

“I had breakfast with you,” Will says. “Not since then.”

“I’ll get you something,” Hannibal says, and Will hears him leave the room. 

All their talking has woken up Shelby, who squirms and wriggles, only managing to get herself trapped in the crack behind the couch cushions. Will sighs and sits up so he can free her, hugging her small body close for a second before setting her gently on the ground. She trots off after Hannibal. Will’s head feels worse with him upright, but if it’s not going to get better any time soon, he’ll just have to get used to it. He’s done it before.

He follows the little dog into the kitchen in time to catch Hannibal giving her a treat. “She’s getting fat,” he points out. “I don’t generally mind you trying to fatten me up, but it isn’t healthy for them.”

Hannibal sighs. “You should be resting.”

“So you can overfeed our dogs outside my watchful eye?” Will scoffs. “I’m sick, not dead. We know what it is now and I’m hardly going to make it worse by standing up. Last time I was working more than full time and wasn’t even receiving treatment and I was fine.”

“You nearly died, Will.” Hannibal isn’t looking at him again: he’s suddenly very focused on the contents of the refrigerator. “I was reckless with your life once. I’m not going to be again.”

“I know,” Will says soberly, stepping closer and setting a hand on Hannibal’s back. “But right now, it’s just a bad headache. I won’t drive until we’re sure I’m past the point of having a seizure, and you can keep me from wandering somewhere I shouldn’t at night. I’m not gonna just lie in bed and let you wait on me until I have to.”

 

Things get worse before they get better. It’s been nearly ten years, and Will had forgotten how it felt to have his brain rebel on him like this: they have to lock the bedroom door at night, and the week before they can start the plasmapheresis is a blur of lost time and seizures. He has no idea how he managed to work like this last time, how he managed to believe nothing was actually that wrong. 

In some ways it drives home how much more peaceful his life is now, and how much more comfortable he is in his own skin. He notices now when he dissociates through a whole day, instead of shrugging it off as normal stress. He notices when his brain shows him horrors, because these days he doesn’t force it to so often that he can hardly find himself. 

But it also dredges up a whole host of memories he’d rather stayed forgotten. 

Hannibal managed to get all the medications, blood, and equipment they need relatively easily; the hospital will notice it’s missing, of course, but there’s nothing to trace back to them. 

Will watches Hannibal get everything set up for the plasmapheresis, and he’s fine. This is going to suck, but he’s fine.

And then Hannibal tries to put the IV in his arm, and he’s not fine. He’s in the spare bedroom, trying to center himself because he’s never been a huge fan of needles, and then it’s nine years ago and he’s in Hannibal’s office in Baltimore, watching Hannibal slide a different needle into his arm against his will. He can’t breathe. He feels like he’s screaming but he can’t hear it. He flings himself back and away, scrambling across the bed in a blind panic.

Hannibal makes no move to follow. He’s frozen by the foot of the bed, needle still in his hand and distress in the lines of his face. “Will?”

Will forces himself to breathe, though his whole body is shaking violently. His mind is back in the bedroom, in the now, but the idea of Hannibal touching him makes him want to vomit. He’s not entirely sure if that should be considered a hallucination or a flashback, but whatever it was was so real that he felt the leather of the chair beneath him. He can’t speak, and when Hannibal takes a step closer to him he flinches so violently he smacks his elbow on the headboard with a crack.

Hannibal steps back slowly. His posture is as non threatening as it can be, considering that he can’t set down the needle without contaminating it. “I’m not trying to hurt you, Will.”

Will shakes his head. He draws his knees up and wraps his arms around them, curling up in an effort to stop the shudders wracking his body. “You have before.”

Hannibal nods slowly. “Is that what you saw?”

Will nods, then rests his forehead on his knees. They muffle his voice slightly as he says, “Give me a minute.”

“Of course,” Hannibal says gently. “I—”

“Don’t,” Will interrupts. “Just—don’t talk, for a second, okay?”

Will can practically feel Hannibal struggling to keep quiet, but he doesn’t reply. Will focuses on breathing, in and out. He feels the seams of his pants, and grounds himself in his fingers, rubbing them gently against the thick cotton. After awhile, he raises his head. Hannibal hasn’t moved.

“Thank you,” Will says. 

“Are you all right?”

Will laughs brokenly. “Not at all, but we have to do this. I’d still rather you did it than try to myself.” He releases his legs and scoots back over to the edge of the bed. “I’m gonna close my eyes, I think? Don’t say anything, just do it.”

Hannibal nods, and Will closes his eyes and goes somewhere else until it’s done.

 

Hannibal gives Will as much space as he can after administering the plasmapheresis. Will seems to be having difficulty speaking, and Hannibal doesn’t have the words to make any of this better. Will has every reason to flinch away from Hannibal approaching him with a needle, and the last time he was this ill, Hannibal hurt him. If Will needs to stay away from him until he’s well, Hannibal will understand that.

Which is not to say that it doesn’t hurt. It hurts to see Will ill at all, and to have Will flinch away from him as he did was incredibly distressing. It’s been years since Will has avoided Hannibal’s touch. It’s been years since they’ve even discussed any of this. Years of being perilously happy—he shouldn’t be surprised that something has decided to dramatically shatter that calm like this. He should have known it was too perfect to last. He just never expected that their ending would be something so mundane as physical illness.

He knows that Will has tried to put their past behind him, but now that it’s being dredged back up Hannibal can hardly expect Will to be willing to forget it again. He wants to offer comfort, but it seems like anything he might say or do will only make things worse.

Will comes to dinner when Hannibal calls him, but he doesn’t speak. He only manages a few bites of the simple meal Hannibal prepared before going to lie down with Shelby in the living room. Hannibal sets down his own fork. It’s rare that he loses his appetite, but today is not an average day.

Dixon bumps her head against his calf, looking up at him with sad eyes. Hannibal reaches down and scratches behind her ear for a minute before clearing the table. She follows him to the kitchen and lays down behind him as he does the dishes. She probably wants a treat, but Hannibal doesn’t want to do anything further to upset Will today.

Will is asleep on the couch when Hannibal goes to check on him, and Hannibal can’t bring himself to disturb him. Their sofa is comfortable enough to spend the night on if necessary. He’d carry Will to bed, but he doesn’t want to touch Will without permission right now, nor does he want Will to be alarmed by waking up somewhere other than where he fell asleep. Instead Hannibal goes around and bolts all the doors and hopes the dogs will alert him if Will starts sleepwalking somewhere he shouldn’t.

He tries to draw, and then tries to read, and then gives up and goes to bed early. Will is still asleep in the living room, so Hannibal leaves the bedroom door open. He doesn’t even try to tell Dixon to get down when she jumps into bed with him, just tugs the blanket out from under her and then buries a hand in her fur. He tries to convince himself that her presence is a comfort.

 

Will jolts awake from a nightmare of blood and bone, throwing himself off whatever he was lying on. There’s a brief moment of disoriented panic before he realizes he must have fallen asleep in the living room. It’s cold, and dark, and his clothes are soaked with sweat. He doesn’t know where his glasses are, and it’s too dark to see them anywhere. Hopefully they haven’t ended up on the ground where he’ll step. Will walks out of the room as carefully as he can. 

There’s a gurgling noise in the kitchen as he walks past, and he turns to look. Hannibal is splayed out on the island, and there’s blood… everywhere. The whole room is a pulsing, glistening red,  and a fountain of it spurts from Hannibal’s chest, flowing down and spilling onto the floor beneath him. Will watches in mute horror as Hannibal sits up, a rictus grin stretching his blood drenched face. Gouts of blood are still spilling from his chest, but he stands and takes a step toward Will.

Will stumbles back and trips on something, falling on his ass. The something turns out to be Shelby, who jumps into his lap and yips at him. He looks down at her—she’s so little, she must have been half drowning in the blood… but her fur is clean, the same pale color it always is. When he raises his eyes, the kitchen is empty and dark. The house is silent. 

Will forces himself to breathe, in and out. He counts slowly to ten. Shelby is pawing at his chest, but she’s fine. They’re fine. Nothing is wrong. He pushes Shelby down into his lap and strokes her and strokes her, until she’s calm and his hands have stopped shaking. 

Eventually, he sets her down and climbs to his feet. Shelby is off like a shot, a streak of bright cream disappearing down the hall toward the bedrooms. Will keeps his eyes firmly on the floor as he follows her, although he hears something that could be whispering coming from the basement staircase. He’s never been a fan of the dark, even now that he’s usually the scariest thing in it.

Hannibal is spooning Dixon when he walks into the bedroom, and the endearing normalcy of the sight nearly makes him smile. She jumps down when she sees Will walk in the room, going to curl up beside Shelby in the dog bed where she knows she’s supposed to sleep. 

“Good girl, Dixie,” he says quietly.

Hannibal opens his eyes. “Will,” he says, reaching out towards him. His voice is rough, but not like he’s been asleep. More like he might cry, or has been crying. It’s too dark to tell.

Will steps forward and takes his hand; the bloody vision from the kitchen recedes. “You okay?”

Hannibal shakes his head and tries to smile. “Don’t worry about me, Will. Are you coming to bed?”

Will nods and lets go of his hand to strip out of his damp clothes. He locks the door and then crawls into bed nude, curling his body around Hannibal’s. He can’t quite fend off the impulse to cling. 

“Are _you_ okay?” Hannibal asks, wrapping an arm around him and holding him close.

“You were dead.” Will’s voice shakes more than he wants it to. “In the kitchen, I walked by and you were dead. You were dead, and I’d spent all day avoiding you.” He presses their foreheads together and breathes in Hannibal’s familiar scent; feels his breath, warm and alive. “I hate this. I love you.”

Hannibal holds him tighter. “Me too. But I’m here, Will. I’m alive and I’m not going anywhere. Can you trust me to take care of you through this?”

Will nods and buries his face in Hannibal’s neck. Hannibal’s pulse beats strong and steady, more of a reassurance than words could be. “I really really hate this, though.”

“I know.” Hannibal presses a kiss into Will’s hair. “I’ve got you.”

“You do,” Will murmurs into his skin. 

Neither of them sleeps for a long time.

 

Hannibal isn’t sure how he makes it through his classes the next morning. He’d taken the last week off, but today Will shoved him out the door with a reassurance that he would text every hour and Hannibal was welcome to call if he needed to. He did need to. Nothing in the last 24 hours had been reassuring, and Hannibal is anxious to get home when his second class ends just before two. Will seemed to be bearing up well when they spoke at eleven, but Will is very good at making himself seem fine when he’s falling apart. After last night, Hannibal hates to have left him alone at all. 

Dixon doesn’t greet him when he comes in the door, which means Will and the dogs are likely outside. Sure enough, the girls rush him as he slides open the door to the backyard. He bends down to pet them both, though his eyes are scanning the yard for signs of Will. 

The door to the shed, where Will has set up something of a workshop, is propped open just enough for the dogs to come and go; the way he often leaves it when he’s working. Hannibal pushes it open the rest of the way and feels himself melt a little at the sight of Will hunched over his desk, working on some intricate fly. 

He doesn’t seem to notice Hannibal, too focused on his work. Hannibal takes the opportunity to just watch for a moment, still slightly overwhelmed to be allowed access to these private moments even though they’ve been together for years. Watching Will in here is in some ways more intimate than anything they might share in the bedroom, and it’s beautiful. Will being comfortable enough with Hannibal that he doesn’t startle to his presence is beautiful too. It’s almost enough to make him forget the day before entirely, if it weren’t for the sweet scent of fever still lacing the air.

“You’re home early,” Will says, still not looking up. “Provided that is you, and not an unusually benevolent hallucination.”

“It’s me,” he says, stepping more fully into the space. He rests a hand on Will’s shoulder and catches his answering smile in the reflection on the magnifying glass. “I cancelled my office hours.”

Will sits back, shifting around to look at him and making Hannibal’s hand fall. “You didn’t have to. See? I made it through the day just fine.”

“I wanted to,” Hannibal says, and does his best to let some of what he’s feeling show on his face. 

Will sees it; Will always sees him. His expression softens. “I’m here,” he says. “I’m fine. Or, as fine as I’m going to be for awhile.”

“Have you had any noteworthy symptoms today?”

Will stands; Hannibal steps back to accommodate him as he stretches and turns back toward the house. “Mostly just auditory hallucinations today, that I noticed. I think I kept track of time okay. Headache is the same.”

Hannibal nods, following him back across the yard to the house. Will stops and whistles in the doorway, and the dogs come tumbling in after them. “Have you eaten since I left?” 

Will rolls his eyes as he flops down against the arm of the sofa. “I had a sandwich after we got off the phone this morning, because I love you.”

“It’s because I love you that I want you to eat,” Hannibal points out, sitting down beside him.

Will obligingly shifts to lean against Hannibal instead of the sofa, snuggling closer when Hannibal wraps an arm around him. “I know. The prednisone makes me kind of hungry anyway. Enough to balance out the plasmapheresis, at least.”

“I’m pleased if it encourages you not to skip meals.”

“It’s always about food with you,” Will says, but he’s smiling. He shifts a hand onto Hannibal’s thigh, tracing patterns there. “How was your day?”

“I didn’t pay it much attention,” Hannibal admits. He’s felt unmoored and anxious all day, only finding his footing now that he’s got Will solid and alive against him.

“You’re awfully worried,” Will says, turning to peer at his face. “I have done this before, under worse circumstances. I really will be fine. It’s just a slow, shitty process to get there.”

“I know you will be.” Hannibal sighs, and tries to find a way to fit his thoughts into a sentence; emotional vulnerability still doesn’t come naturally to him. Will waits him out. “Relapse of anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis is more common in those who don’t receive proper treatment during their initial experience with the disease,” he says, eventually. “As you pointed out yesterday, I haven’t always treated you with the care you deserve. I want—I need to do this right, this time.”

“You trying to make up for that now won’t… change anything, you know that, right? It won’t make me forgive you more and it won’t make what happened any less horrible of you.” Will puts a hand on Hannibal’s chest and pushes himself up on it, looking intently at Hannibal’s face. “It’s your fault that that shit is in my head for this disease to drag up. It’s maybe a little bit your fault that I’m sick now. But there are lasting consequences to a lot of the things you did; I knew that when I agreed to be with you. It’s not okay, but this doesn’t make it any more or less okay than it has been.”

“I’m pleased to hear it.” Hannibal studies the shadows under Will’s eyes rather than meeting them. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to take care of you if I can. I want to be here if you need me.” He closes his eyes and wraps his fingers around the wrist Will has against his chest, holding on. His heart beats too fast under their hands. “And it helps me to be able to see and feel that you are in one piece. My heart doesn’t know that you’ll be fine.”

Will’s other hand comes up to lift Hannibal’s head and force eye contact. It’s a move Hannibal is more used to using on him, and it nearly makes him smile. “There we go,” Will says gently. “I’ll let you take care of me, if that’s what you need. But let’s not pretend this is you doing something for me.”

“Ah, so you’d prefer to do your own plasmapheresis tomorrow then.”

Will rolls his eyes and lets the hand under Hannibal’s chin fall, looking down himself. “Okay, you are doing some things for me. I appreciate them. I—it means a lot, that I don’t have to do this alone. But I don’t need you to dote on me and stay home from work for me.”

Hannibal presses their foreheads together and feels Will sigh. “I know.”

“Good,” Will says, and lets himself fall back into place against Hannibal’s side. 

They sit in silence for awhile—Hannibal, for one, would be content to stay like this all afternoon. He holds Will close against him and feels him breathe; finally feels the tight coil of tension that’s been itching under his skin since Will flinched away from him yesterday unwind. 

“I do appreciate it,” Will says eventually. “You being here, I mean. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d been alone last night.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Hannibal says, and then smiles. “You would have been fine, but I’m glad you didn’t have to make yourself be.”

“Yeah.” Will sighs and shifts closer. “Me too.”

 

Will starts feeling consistently better around the second week of plasmapheresis. He’s still achy and his head is just a source of infinite suffering, but he stops trying to climb out the window in the middle of the night and he doesn’t lose track of what’s going on around him. 

Hannibal insists on celebrating the first full day without hallucinations. It’s been three weeks of things being shitty for both of them, so Will lets him. Will gets sent out to his workshop before Hannibal starts dinner prep; Hannibal usually likes having Will with him at all times, including when he’s cooking or decorating, but when he’s doing something special for Will, he likes to have the space. He says it’s because he doesn’t want Will to be tempted to help, but Will’s pretty sure it’s more that he doesn’t want Will to see all the in progress stages, lest any of them be less than perfect.

It’s a routine Will is used to, and it’s endearing. He’s happy to play with the girls and tinker for an hour or two, and whatever Hannibal does will be both beautiful and delicious. He’s happy, anyway; no hallucinations in less than a month means his recovery is going very well, and Hannibal finally gave him back his keys. He only actually had a few seizures, but he doesn’t begrudge Hannibal the caution. 

It’s funny to think about how far they’ve come. He’s not nostalgic—where they are is far better than where they were—but he finds himself thinking about it as he waits for Hannibal to call him in for dinner. The Hannibal that induced his seizures and thought he’d be happy to clinically study the degeneration of Will’s brain all those years ago would barely recognize the man in the kitchen today. Will would barely recognize himself. They’re both happier here, together in this little house with their little dogs, than either of them had ever imagined being. 

Dixon bolts up from her spot at Will’s feet, and he smiles. Time for dinner, then. 

Inside, Hannibal leads him right to the dining room. The lights are low and there are candles, but not much else; there wasn’t much time to prepare. Will sits and closes his eyes when Hannibal tells him to, still smiling. He hears Hannibal leave and then set plates down.

Hannibal sits, and touches the back of Will’s hand to let him know he’s ready. Will opens his eyes and lets out a little laugh.

“Shrimp and grits?” The dish is beautifully plated, but unmistakable. It’s something that Will only gets when he insists on cooking, and Hannibal always politely refuses to consume something called ‘grits’.

Hannibal looks uncharacteristically bashful. “I love you.”

Will reaches for his hand and squeezes it. “I love you too. It’s beautiful, thank you.”

“It’s likely not up to the standards of yours,” Hannibal admits, “but I thought you could use the comfort food.”

Will takes a bite before replying. It’s excellent, of course: the shrimp are tender and not overcooked, and the grits are perfectly seasoned and so creamy they practically melt in the mouth. He closes his eyes to savor it, and then meets Hannibal’s eye and grins. “I think it’ll do.”

Hannibal actually laughs, and Will feels like the warmth in his chest might overflow. His head still hurts and he’s still sick, but this is almost enough to make him forget about that. This is all he needs.

Hannibal’s made the dogs special treats too, and Will can’t even bring himself to pretend to be upset with him for it. The sight of Hannibal Lecter kneeling on the kitchen floor after dinner and carefully presenting their little dogs with tiny dog-safe cakes is too adorable. Hannibal always remembers to include the girls in celebrations. 

Will pulls him to his feet and kisses him, pressing him back against the kitchen island. Hannibal seems startled but definitely pleased, making a little noise and melting into the kiss. Will presses into it for a second before pulling back to lean their foreheads together.  “I love you,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

Hannibal’s arms come up behind him and hold him close. “Thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Will kisses him again instead of answering. He doesn’t have words for the way he’s feeling: light and bright and warmly _alive_. The man who nearly let himself die of encephalitis nine years ago wouldn’t have believed this feeling was one he could have, wouldn’t have believed he could love someone this much or be this solidly loved in return. 

Hannibal pulls away eventually, to do the dishes and clean up. He stops to scratch Dixon behind the ears and rub Shelby’s head. Will watches him and smiles. There may be a lot of pain and hurt in their history, but, in this moment, Will can’t think of a single thing he’d change.

**Author's Note:**

> a fun fact: I once had shrimp and grits at a really fancy restaurant and as someone who grew up eating grits I literally have no idea how they made cornmeal so light and fluffy
> 
> I very much hope you all enjoyed!! Thank you for reading and please leave a comment if you feel so led, or come find me on [tumblr](http://softwillgraham.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Also if you’d like to see my fancasts for the dogs (or to spread the word about this fic) there’s a [post](https://softwillgraham.tumblr.com/post/177782159651/i-feel-your-thumbs-press-into-my-skin-again-52k)!


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